


Running

by Trash



Category: Linkin Park
Genre: AU, Homophobia, M/M, based on Hozier's Take Me to Church video
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-18
Updated: 2015-03-18
Packaged: 2018-03-18 11:37:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3568223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trash/pseuds/Trash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're not going to let them win. They're going to keep running.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Running

**Author's Note:**

> For Shinobi

_There is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin_

Chester drives whilst Mike sleeps on the back seat, head pillowed on one of their rucksacks. Chester glances back at him every now and then, and his heart flutters with love every time. Eyes back on the road, he grips the steering wheel until his knuckles go white. 

There's a checkpoint twenty miles ahead, and he'll have to wake Mike before they get there. Until then he keeps the car at a steady speed, the radio playing an anti-lullaby of rock music. 

***

Things used to be different. They had a house, jobs, a life. Mike worked at a restaurant in town and Chester in a record store. They made enough money to pay the rent, buy food, get gas for the car. They lived the lives they had both been raised to dread - average and predictable. 

But they were happy. Chester's memories are of them on the back porch as the sun set, drinking beer from bottles dripping with condensation. They'd pass a joint back and forth until they smoked it all the way to the roach, and Mike would always burn his fingers. Chester would soothe them with kisses, and they'd fuck right there on the smooth boards. 

He doesn't remember the fear that suffocates them now. Waking up and not knowing if this is going to be the last day. He doesn't remember guns, or needing to know how to fight with bare fists and bared teeth. 

Chester's boss was an ageing hippy, the lines on his face made by smiling. He would excuse Chester's lateness, when he had to stay home a while and help Mike get out of bed. 

Depression, the doctor said. Treatable symptoms. From then on Mike over compensated, trying to prove that he was happy. 

"It's a chemical imbalance," Chester reassured him. "Don't overthink it."

Mike's boss was a hard ass homophobe who referred to Chester as Mike's girlfriend and hung up if he called the restaurant. 

But mostly things were good. Mike took his medication, Chester whispered soothingly to him as he fell asleep. Things were good. 

***

The checkpoint sits in the distance, a shimmering mirage on the flat road. Chester reaches into the back seat and pushes Mike's sweat-damp hair from his face. His eyes flutter. "Morning, sunshine."

Mike smiles, stretches. "Where are we?"

"Checkpoint ahead," Chester says, rummaging through the glovebox. He pulls out two passports and hands one to Mike when he clambers into the front. "Nice to meet you, Taylor Campbell."

Mike curls his nose. "Taylor?"

"Yep. We're heading to the East coast to vista your sister Topher."

"You're fucking kidding me."

"No. I was the best man at your wedding when you married Kayla. We go way back, you and I."

"Right. What's your name?"

"Steve."

They approach the checkpoint with hearts hammering in time with one another. When the attendant takes their passports she looks at the photos then at them. "Where you headed?"

"New York," Mike says, "visiting family."

"Excuse me," she says, closing her window and turning to her computer. 

Chester wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans. 

Mike makes small talk for the benefit of the microphones on the booth. "If we make it in time we might catch dinner. Has Topher ever made you pizza? I mean, it's just pizza, but it's amazing. Kayla loves it."

"Is that why she married you?"

Mike swats at his arm. "No. Dude. That's my rugged good looks."

It isn't unusual for the attendants to run checks, but it still leaves Chester feeling nauseated. He plays along with Mike's chatter until she reappears, smiling. "Here you go. Have a safe journey."

Chester doesn't hang around for her to change her mind. 

***  
It was the British Prime Minister who started it, the fertility scare. And, as usual, America jumped in the bandwagon with gusto. 

All men had to be tested to check they were fertile. Of course, they didn't say that. A rise in testicular cancer linked to a certain enzyme found in a certain something brought about the need for tests. There were propaganda posters with famous sportspeople on them, all boasting "I'm all clear. Are you?"

The tests were made mandatory for employers to enforce, and men flocked to the make-shift clinics set up all over the country. It was painless, over quickly, and deemed a huge success. 

But it was all bullshit. Of course it was. They didn't mention that the tests were actually checking fertility levels. They didn't say anything about the decline in population. 

Stories made their way from Britain via websites usually known for their posting of celebrity nudes. Breeding, the websites said, forced breeding. 

Mike came home from work one night with a stricken look on his face. "They're...they're enforcing it. The breeding."

Chester hadn't believed it. And it's not like they could really enforce it, could they? In what way? By making homosexuality illegal?

Worse - the government made it clear that they considered any who weren't registered to the breeding programme an anti-American. A terrorist. 

They had to run. 

***

They take turns driving until neither of them can keep their eyes open and they pull over, whether it be into a motel or a lay-by. 

Every checkpoint they cross they present themselves as different, Breeding Programme Registered, people. And these are real people, too. Karl Askew and David Sholt, Robert Florence and Tim Richards, all of their false identities are real people at home with their registration papers and their timetables for breeding. 

The underground message boards suggest that New York hasn't enforced the mandatory registration yet, so that's where they'll go. Eventually they'll leave the country, but not yet. 

Darkness falls all around them, Mike's face bathed in starlight as they drive. He squints behind his glasses, rubs his eyes. "We're gonna have to stop," he says eventually. "I can't see shit."

The neon motel sign flickers, a fly makes an ill fated trip into the bright blue zapper, all around them the sound of cicadas fills the night. Mike leans against the car smoking whilst Chester checks them in. He holds up the key with a smile and waves Mike over. Room fourteen, right next to room twelve. "Ain't superstitious or nothin'" the man on reception had said, "but I ain't takin' no risks. Know what I'm sayin'?"

Chester had nodded. "Absolutely."

The room is worn but clean, and Chester flings himself down onto the bed. Mike dumps their bags by the door and kicks off his shoes, climbing onto the bed and lying on top of Chester. They kiss lazily, no rush, and undress with the same ease of pace. Mike rides him with his head thrown back, sweat glistening on his chest like glitter. 

***

In the morning Chester wakes alone. He blinks at the alarm clock on the lop-sided bedside table. It's not even nine yet, so he figures Mike must have gone to get coffee from the machine in the lobby. Chester stretches and pulls on a shirt and some jeans, digging a battered carton of cigarettes from Mike's bag along with a plastic lighter. 

Grabbing the key he steps out into the already blinding sun. He doesn't even manage to bring his cigarette to his lips, too stunned to move. In the dirt lot, where their car and a handful of others are parked, a group of men are kicking something on the ground. God, Chester thinks, please don't let it be a dog. 

It's not a dog. 

The begging can be barely heard over the angry yells of the men, but Chester knows that voice well enough. He throws down the cigarettes and lighter, racing across the lot to where Mike is lying, stricken in the dirt whilst kicks rain down on him. 

"Get off him!" Chester cries, lunging at the closest thug. He tackles him to the ground and throws himself across Mike to protect him. Heavy boots strike well aimed kicks to his ribs, his kidneys, he tries to cover his head and Mike's. 

"Fucking faggots," one of the group spits, stamping on Chester's fingers. He cries out in pain and kicks his back leg wildly until it connects with something and a body falls. 

Mike groans and, for the first time, opens his eyes. Chester gets up and smacks one of the guys in the face whilst another kicks him in the knee, trying to take him down. He fails and Chester elbows him hard in the mouth, sending a spray of spit and blood and teeth in all directions. He raises a knee and kicks out, booting a guy full force in the stomach and sending him reeling.

The gun shot makes his heart stop. 

All around him the fight stops. Instinctively Chester falls to his knees beside Mike. He takes stock. If somebody has been shot it is definitely not either of them. The gang scatter, high tailing it across the lot. In the entrance to the lobby the owner who ain't suspicious or nothin' stands, gun in his extended hand. 

He sets his jaw and tucks the gun in the waistband of his pants. "Get the fuck out of here," he says, "before I call the five-oh."

Chester is too stunned to speak. He scoops Mike up in his arms, his body like a rag doll. He carries him across the lot and to the room, kicking open the door. "It's okay, Mikey," Chester whispers, "let me. Let me just load up the car. Okay? Then we'll hit the road and I can clean you up at the next truck stop."

Chester babbles to himself as he takes their bags out to the car and returns for Mike. How could they have known? Was it a good guess? Or were they just looking to fight anyone? Mike stirs awake when he sits on the edge of the bed and Chester manages a weak smile, pushing a few strands of bloodied hair from his face. "Morning, sleeping beauty."

Mike winces. "Jesus. There's a rail spike through my head."

"You. You were jumped," Chester says, "a bunch of guys just...they were..."

"Ssh," Mike says, sitting up. He clutches his head with a groan. "Don't worry about me. I'm...I'll be fine. Might be pissing blood for a while, but I'll be fine."

This doesn't placate Chester any, and he runs a hand through Mike's hair. "I thought you...thought they might have..."

Mike kisses him then, suddenly. "Don't," he says, against Chester's lips. "I'm not. They didn't. Please don't do this to yourself. I'm not really up for driving, though."

Chester looks him over, taking in his split lip and bruised jaw. And they're just the visible injuries. "I want to take you to the emergency room."

"No. We can't risk it." He takes Chester's face in both his hands and looks him in the eye. "I'll. Be. Fine. Some aspirin and coffee and I'll be fine."

"Okay," Chester says, "okay."

He helps Mike limp his way across the lot to the car. He helps him into the passenger seat and slides into the driver's seat beside him. He guns the engine and stares out of the windscreen until Mike slides a hand into his, encouraging him to look over.

"We're not going to let them win," he says.

Chester smiles and leans in for a gentle kiss. "Let's go," he says, turning up the radio. Mike kicks up his feet, and the car kicks up dust.

They run.


End file.
